


Like a Gingerbread House

by Anonymous



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 03:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8649649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The prompt was "Either Jacob or Newt gaining weight".
In which Jacob realizes that Newt is too skinny for his tastes. He decides to do something about it.





	

Jacob is good with people. He’s always known that. Animals? Not so much. But he’s learning.

Newt is good with animals. Everyone knows that. People? No. Honest to God, no. And he refuses to learn. It took a long time to convince him that it was worth magicking an oven into this clandestine zoo. Newt only agreed when he promised to bake treats for all the beasts: “Every single one of them,” he had said firmly, before launching into a rant about the dangers of favoritism. 

So when Jacob presents him with a plate, a lovely croissant perched on top of it, Newt just wrinkles his nose and says “Well, I’m glad the oven works,” and then turns heel and walks off. And Jacob really shouldn’t have expected any different. But his face falls, anyway. He looks down at the croissant. It’s golden-brown, with the perfect amount of crunch no doubt. It’s perfect; why would Newt not want it?

He remembers why.

“Hey, English boy!” He hollers in his best authoritative voice. Newt stops in his tracks, shuffles around like he typically does before turning to look at him. He looks utterly confused.

“I believe the proper words are ‘thank you’,” he huffs, closing the distance between them. Newt steps back as if he’s holding a dynamite instead of a croissant.

“But I’m not hungry,” Newt stammers. Jacob shoves the plate at his abdomen, hoping to knock a few ribs for emphasis.

“’Thank. You,’” he repeats, poking the taller male with the plate. “You want to stop annoying people? Then eat the stuff they painstakingly baked for you, for chrissakes.”

“Thank you,” Newt says, his tone a poor imitation of gratitude, finally taking the plate. Satisfied, Jacob grins and walks off, straightening his vest and feeling a sense of accomplishment well up inside him.

It’s a start.

He’s been an observer of Newt’s poor eating habits for quite a while. The man eats next to nothing, preferring to rush meals so he can stay on schedule for feeding time (oh, the irony). He sneaks morsels into his breastpocket for his tiny plant. Sometimes he sulks for no reason, preferring not to eat at all. 

Sometimes Jacob watches him as he sleeps, sees how his shirt rises up to reveal a pale sliver of skin. A jutting hipbone, the remnants of a light scar punctuating it further. Newt looks a lot smaller when he isn’t wearing four layers of coats, it seems. How he has the energy to lug around sacks of feed daily is a mystery to Jacob, but he’s concluded a long time ago that the only thing magical in that regard is Newt’s sheer devotion. 

He decides he’s not going to let Newt keel over from starvation in his own suitcase.

So he bakes, and bakes, and bakes.

To his chagrin, Newt isn’t impressed with what was supposed to be his bestseller. The brunette reaches for the donut hesitantly when Jacob has him at platepoint. “I thought you were going to make treats for the animals,” Newt says. 

“I am,” he replies, lying through his teeth. “I just needed you to taste it first.”

And Newt finally nibbles on the donut. “It’s sweet,” he says, looking surprised, and Jacob is incredulous. He almost wants to ask him if he’s never had a donut before. Do they not have donuts in Britain? Or do they have an unsweetened wizard version?

“Supposed to be,” Jacob says, keeping his tone as even as possible.

“The mooncalves will love it,” Newt says, excitement creeping into his voice. There’s a twinkle in his eye, now. Jacob knows he’s lost all of Newt’s attention at this point. “The grindylows, not so much, but perhaps Dougal…” And he’s rambling again, leaving the rest of his donut uneaten. Jacob curses inwardly.

He has better luck with scones. To his relief, Newt seems to like them even though he’s only made them once or twice before. “I miss having these at home,” he confesses as he pops two into his mouth. “They taste like the ones my mum used to bake.” He looks Jacob in the eye for once and says “Thank you, Jacob, these are amazing,” before eating four more in succession. Jacob’s head spins; it’s like a murtlap bite all over again, because he can’t figure out which is more astounding: Newt getting through a conversation without name-dropping some sort of creature or Newt eating more than he's ever seen him eat in one sitting.

Things change after that. He no longer has to corner Newt and push pastries into his dirt-streaked palms. Or lecture him on how to be a worthy conversationalist. They develop a pattern. Newt comes over un-beckoned whenever Jacob pulls the tray out of their magicked oven.

“And these are?” he says, rubbing his hands together and gazing longingly at Jacob's work.

“Lemon squares, auntie’s recipe.”

“Excellent.” Newt takes two squares at a time. Jacob smiles.

Sometimes, Newt doesn’t even come over. He uses a summon hex or whatever it’s called, and the creampuffs whizz off to whatever biome he’s tending to that day. And Jacob doesn’t mind. He’s flattered that his baking has been incorporated to Newt’s previously strict routine. Soon Newt takes to walking around with a Danish in his mouth rather than his wand, which is, well, it still makes his blood pressure rise but in a different way.

It starts to show eventually, and Jacob can’t say he’s unhappy with the change. Sure, Newt’s cheekbones are less pronounced, but he’s also less pale and far less jittery. Apparently the strangeness might’ve just been manifestations of a vitamin deficiency, Jacob thinks amusedly as he watches Newt struggle to put his coat on.

“It feels different,” Newt exhales as he wrestles with the fabric for a moment before giving up and dumping it on the ground. “Kind of – tight?” Jacob answers his questioning look with a shrug.

“It was getting kind of ragged, anyway.” He stares a little too long at the straining buttons on Newt’s vest. His trousers no longer look baggy, and when he turns around to shuck off his vest, Jacob lets his gaze wander and finds that Newt’s filled them out quite nicely.

He does a further study later that night, searching for the jut of hip at Newt’s side and finding only the softness and pale white scar. He can’t count Newt’s ribs anymore, but he can count the number of scones Newt is about to have as a midnight snack – he sets down the plate and Newt reaches for it in the dark, whispering “Thank you.”

“The pleasure is mine, pal,” he says, slipping into his own bed, and Jacob goes to sleep with nothing but ingredients on his mind and a new recipe for tomorrow.


End file.
